Of Sound Earth
by MorriganMKII
Summary: Roark lost his gym, but gains something else down the road.    A real mess of a Roark/Volkner fic.


Of Sound Earth

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sounds of crushing rock filled a diminutive tunnel. Small and mighty hands of small and mighty creatures brought down on walls of stone and earth, ever chipping away.

Progress was slow, but steady. Roark could complain about nothing.  
>He filled a trough with yet more water. The creatures drank, and returned to their work: completely refreshed nearly instantaneously.<p>

Faster and stronger than any man that had ever worked in the mine, these creatures, with no drill, hammer or pick to rely on; only their hands and their drink.

To the town this meant, simply, that output was at an all-time high; input at an all-time low. Coal filled carts, energy lit homes, money lined pockets.

Roark could complain about nothing, but he was not content.  
>His work, so deep in the mines, was lonely. Lonely and not particularly fulfilling. The last man, as it were, in a cavern stuffed to fullness with pokemon.<p>

Though at one time he had taken a certain amount of happiness in knowing that it was an important job, one that had to be done by some singular human for the greater good of the mine as well as his hometown, years of silent and isolated thought led his emotions elsewhere. The diligent workers he oversaw were now recognized by him as his superiors, regardless of what his title of Trainer may have implied.

This upset him.

Yet he held no great resentment for the workers; he could not. He cared for them a great deal, in fact.

In years past he had raised and cared for some of their great number, back when they took a role that did not involve outperforming all of humanity in the mines. What seemed like a lifetime long past, a younger and passionate Roark had led the gym of his town as well as its mine, though inexperienced in relation to his peers of work. He and his pokemon had done well enough for themselves, and with that he was content.

Back when Oreburgh mattered to the Pokemon League. Back when it mattered to anyone.  
>They had not done well enough for them.<br>This thought crossed Roark's mind, and in one instant he felt an intense need to sob, releasing one quieted and rushed by the counter-need of dignity his mind eagerly provided in the next moment. He attempted to pass it off as a cough, though no other human was there to judge him or the attempt, and the machop payed him no mind. He felt a twinge of shame, regardless.

The small cave seemed to grow yet smaller, despite the sounds of steadily expanding walls that filled it, and the stale air grew yet staler.

When Roark reached this point, what now seemed to be every evening, he would look to his watch, praying that the small hand had at last struck seven.

He felt distinctly non-blessed.

* * *

><p>Two hours, impossibly long, passed. Roark made his depressed, nostalgic and emasculated way home through still and silent winter evening.<p>

If he wanted too, he could have reached his door in less than ten minutes. He did not.

He was compelled to take in as much breath and sight of Oreburgh as was possible with what little energy he had left in him.  
>Streets vacant, sky dark, air still: all that he now knew of his home.<p>

Roark missed the travelers almost as much as he did seeing Oreburgh in sunlight, or the mine full of workers that he could speak with. He looked about him, thinking for the umpteenth time on what could possibly draw just one tourist to the small and secluded place.

Nothing, of course, would. Aside from the mine there was nothing but an old laboratory and the small housing developments of what were formerly Roark's colleagues, who now did little these days but spend the wages earned by their substitutes. More like usurpers, Roark mused idly.

It was at that point that his gaze had wandered to the face of his gy-

A warehouse, he corrected himself. Not his warehouse, and certainly no longer his gym.

_**HEATED SELF STORAGE**_

He hated the sign in that moment more than any singular thing on the planet, taunting him in its flickering illumination.

The anger he felt seemed to steal the air from his lungs as his chest tightened. He suddenly felt very, very tired.

He turned, still hating the sign, and trudged home silent and bitter, his walk in as much ruin as his pride.

A small apartment complex sat on the northern outskirts of Oreburgh, overlooking it from a slight hill. In a happier moment it would have registered in Roark's mind as "Home"; in this one he only saw its too-thickly painted walls and modest flowerbeds as another obstacle between him and his bed.

As he approached his door and pulled the key from his pocket, his dulled senses finally picked up on the presence of someone standing near it.

"Good to see you, Roark."

Roark, in his tired daze, looked at the man as one might look at a particularly befuddling puzzle, attempting to piece together the blond hair and calm face into someone he knew.

The man's expression shifted into something that Roark could not immediately recognize as concern.

"Not feeling well?"

Finally, the face clicked in Roark's mind. It flooded instantaneously with memories of League functions, of old victories and of dead aspirations.

"Volkner?"

The man smiled, though his concern was still evident in his brow.

"Yeah," he said, "is now not a good time?"

Roark's spine stiffened, tiredness and bitterness forgotten for a moment.

"No, no, now's... now's fine."

He opened the door and gestured Volkner in to the small apartment, adding "It's good to see you, too."

As they walked in to an unlit room, Roark realized with just a small amount of horror that he had not cleaned the place in a long time. In the moments it took him to find the light switch,

he wondered just how awful a state it would be in.

Not too bad, in fact, all things being considered. Dusty, but not completely untidy. He let out a small sigh of relief.

"Make yourself at home." Roark said, gesturing to a small couch, not remembering that it was the only piece of sitting furniture in the room. He realized this, and, after a moment of uncertainty, sat on the floor.

Volkner, feeling at least as much uncertain, lowered himself to the couch.

A thick and uncomfortable silence followed, one that seemed to stretch the minute it lasted into infinity.

That Roark was the one to break it surprised both of them.

"I-it's been a while."

"It has..."

"Not since... when, that holiday party?"

"Three years ago." Volkner affirmed, nodding.

"Dang... that long already?" Roark couldn't help but feel the weight of that hit him. He knew it had been a while, but to be given the firm number of what he felt to be wasted years hit him with a certain intensity. The room suddenly became very quiet once more.

"How are things going in the mine?" Volkner said, sounding almost apologetic. If there was one thing that would throw the Roark he knew into a tizzy of impassioned ranting, it was the mine.

Roark shook himself from his momentary depression as best he could, but couldn't quite bring himself to restore eye contact with his guest.  
>"Fine. Better than ever, actually."<p>

"You don't sound very happy about it."

"I guess I should." Roark gave him an odd and sorry look. "It's just... lonely, now. Empty."

"Empty?"

"I can't think of a better word for it." Roark said, shaking his head. "I feel like I haven't actually done anything in years."

"You miss it, don't you?"

Roark looked up again, confused. "My work?"

"Your gym."

Roark's face plummeted. "Of course I do," he said, "every minute." And then the strength of his voice left him. "Have you come here just to taunt me, mister top gym leader?"

And for the first time, Roark saw Volkner turn flustered.

"No! That's not what I- I wouldn't..." He paused a moment, trying to regain some composure. He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very dry. "I came to offer you something, Roark."

Roark sniffed. Volkner's pause was long enough for his embarrassment to kick in. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... shouldn't have jumped on you." he said, voice still shaking, "Offer what?"

"A position at my gym."

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.:<strong>

Disappointment, ho!  
>I somehow convinced myself to write a quick one-shot between my sessions of trying to piece my other POS, Hopeless, back together.<p>

"It'll only take a few hours, tops. It'll be good to stretch yourself out a bit, write something new!" You're a terrible liar, me, get back in your cage.  
>This really got away from me. It was originally meant to be a light and fun fic, but less than a paragraph in and I was already writing a brooding scene. One thousand words later and I started to consider breaking it into chapters.<p>

Shit.

Anyway, you can thank NyahxNeko for springboarding me back into boy/boy fics and, in effect, writing this. She writes such lovely stuff, check her out to make up for this mess, and while I'm covering my shortcomings with recommendations for good authors, Orangeshoelaces.

Oh, and now I'm rambling again. For those whom it may concern (Though I can't imagine why.): Hopeless is not dead. I got writer's block between chapters and started writing ahead. I have written a good three-four chapters since my last update in May, all out of order and not yet cohesive... and then realized just how awful the first few are. I am now trying my darndest to re-write them. If I'm lucky I may just be able to make it so that I hate them in the least amount that I would allow myself to post them within the next three months. Hooray for optimism.


End file.
